


himawari

by omgpeachsnapple



Category: Final Fantasy XIV
Genre: Angst and Fluff and Smut, F/M, Female Warrior of Light (Final Fantasy XIV), Feral cat boy, Final Fantasy XIV: Shadowbringers, Final Fantasy XIV: Shadowbringers Spoilers, First Love, First Time, Heavy Angst, Loss of Virginity, No Beta We Die Like Ascians, Patch 5.0: Shadowbringers Spoilers, Possessive Behavior, Possessive Sex, Resolved Sexual Tension, Sexual Content, What Have I Done
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-29
Updated: 2021-01-29
Packaged: 2021-03-14 21:22:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,153
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29052819
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/omgpeachsnapple/pseuds/omgpeachsnapple
Summary: There are days when he cannot stand to look at her.
Relationships: G'raha Tia | Crystal Exarch & Warrior of Light, G'raha Tia | Crystal Exarch/Warrior of Light
Comments: 9
Kudos: 49





	himawari

It doesn’t have to be love  
Just your warmth is fine

What kind of dream suits us?  
Where can I go to make that dream come true?  
These feelings dance in the north wind  
roaming about with the dead leaves of winter

You’re like a sunflower  
turning towards the sky in the summer sun  
Your hands extended, your smiling face so wonderful

What kind of dream suits us?

Where can I go to make that dream come true?

\--

himawari

2021

\--

There are days when he cannot stand to look at her.

The sound of her laugh, the lilt of her voice, the way the light catches in her eyes, sparkling like snowflakes caught in Starlight’s coloured lights, drives him utterly mad.

These are the days he keeps his distance; if she addresses him, his voice is hard and cold. He does little more than give a perfunctory glance her way as acknowledgment when she enters the Ocular.

And upon dismissal of the Scions, he will withdraw quickly to his quarters, pretending he does not hear her calling his name.

In the beginning, a day like this was rare. She only ever stayed at the Crystarium for a night before departing to reunite with another of her wayward friends. But upon the destruction of the last Lightwarden and of Emet-Selch, there was no rush to be off to another part of Norvrandt, no dashing about here and there. The Scions were content to remain at the Crystarium, and she along with them.

She notices the shift in his moods. Of _course,_ she notices; she is sharp-eyed, observant to an alarming degree. And because she is kind, good-hearted, and concerned, she always attempts to reach out. No doubt she thought G’raha’s moods to be frustration over her friends’ plight, and he is content to let her think so.

These are the days he hates himself the most.

Today is one such day. Unfortunately, the Scions (minus Thancred and Ryne) are gathered in the Ocular. It was his own doing; he had informed them the previous night of a meeting the next morning to ensure their tenuous state was holding. And indeed, G’raha had felt relatively at peace the evening before; yet as the night stretched on, the knowledge she was so near had his resolve melting away.

Alphinaud is speaking; Alisaie takes the opportunity to ignore her brother and lean toward the Exarch.

“You should know, there’s never been anyone else,” Alisaie informs him in a conspiratorial whisper, inclining her head a tad at their Warrior of Darkness. The warrior in question stands with her arms folded, carefully listening to everything Alphinaud has to say with a soft tilt of her head.

“I don’t … I never …” G’raha splutters loudly, forgetting himself as the group turns to look at him curiously.

But the young Elezen only laughs, leaving him to flush deeply, his staff nearly slipping out of his treacherously unsteady hand.

“Um, yes, well …” Alphinaud hesitates, clearly having lost his train of thought. He taps his chin in agitation. Hana and Y’shtola exchange amused looks, each shrugging their shoulders helplessly.

“I’m _famished_!” Alisaie announces, thoroughly derailing her twin; G’raha catches the glance she tosses toward Hana. The other young woman frowns slightly, watching G’raha from the corner of her ice-blue eyes. He determinedly stares at the Ocular ceiling. Alphinaud looks annoyed as his sister takes his arm, but he wisely does not protest. Y’shtola, as wicked as Alisaie, turns her attention to Urianger.

“I could do with some tea,” she says very pointedly, and he smiles gently, placing a hand on the small of her back as they depart.

They were all going to be the death of G’raha, truly.

The door to the Ocular closes as he briskly begins his retreat to his rooms.

She doesn’t call after him.

But she is there, he knows. He can feel her, her vivid presence. A star burning so brilliantly, so beautifully, it is a wonder he can function at all in her company.

“Fury take me,” he hears her murmur from behind him. He is hauled backward, and in a blink, he stands directly in front of her, exactly where he cannot tolerate being, his staff clattering to the floor.

“Hah!” she crows with pride. “E-Sumi Yan is always so disappointed I forget that spell. I know Rescue is supposed to be used for combat purposes, but ….” She shrugs before looking up at G’raha. Her lips are pursed, her brow furrowed, and she is positively, stunningly adorable.

How could so small a creature torment him so?

“ _What_ is the matter, G’raha? Has something gone wrong with the Tower? Is it hurting you, making you ill?” She is already so close, but she takes another daunting step toward him. He backs away several steps before her face falls, the hurt obvious in her eyes; his stomach sinks, and he cannot stand himself for being the cause of the sadness in her expression in the wake of his dismissal.

Silence is his shield, and he hides behind it like a coward.

“Is the fault mine, Raha? What have I done to make you despise me so?” She spreads her hands, palms up, in a pleading gesture. The affectionate name is a punch to his gut.

The lies he kept for the sake of Norvrandt had been relatively easy to keep. This need for her, this desire, this incontrovertible devotion had never been.

He does not deserve her affections, her love. He is not enough, so unworthy as to even speak her name.

“Enough of this. I will not be interrogated so,” he finally hisses through clenched teeth; his voice cracks with the anguish of it all.

She blinks at the grief in his voice, her dazzling eyes softening, reaching one hand out to him. If she touches him, he will come apart. Already he feels himself unraveling, a piece of tattered cloth caught on too many thorns. Why wouldn’t she just listen? Why did she have to be so godsdamn _stubborn_?

“ _Enough_ ,” he says harshly, clenching his jaw in frustration. Her hand drops to her side in surprise, her eyes widening at his sudden aggression, and then her own anger spills forth. She closes the distance between them, again, and shoves a delicate finger ruthlessly into his chest.

“No concealments,” Hana spits out, “That we may speak as friends. Or was that a lie too, _Exarch_?”

He seizes her wrist; it will bruise, he knows, and later he will feel guilty, but now all he can hear is the roaring blood in his ears, feel the bittersweet ache thundering in his heart. He burns, inside and out, love and lust a torrent rushing through him, electrifying every nerve.

“I do not wish to be friends.” And he crushes his mouth to hers, swallowing her gasp of surprise. He plunges into the great depths of his desire; he will drown in it, drown them both in his veneration and yearning. He is experienced in patience, in holding back when all he wanted was this, to pull her flush with him, to wrap his hands in the snow-white tangle of her hair, kissing her with frantic abandon.

Her arms come up around him, around his neck, and when she returns his kiss, he feels like he will burst, a bubble in a glass of champagne.

The dam is broken; he pours every suppressed feeling, every denied thought, every quiet evening alone, every deep corner of his heart into her as though he can make her feel it all. Perhaps she does; she kisses him with veritable intensity, whispering his name over and over. She kisses his nose, the lids of his eyes, his cheeks; he pulls back, holding her by the shoulders, searching her bottomless blue eyes.

And she, the remarkably exquisite star he would follow to the edges of the world, is gazing back at him, her pale eyes full of devotion for _him_ , a fantasy he kept in the deepest pits of his heart, never to be thought of as a possible reality.

“I know,” she says, by way of forgiveness, and the last remnants of himself are lost to her.

He is never going to let her go.

She grips the collar of his robes, holding him to her in desperation, dragging him down on top of her there on the Ocular floor. She is wearing a set of robes she tailored above the knee to allow for more effortless movement, and he is grateful for her weaving skills.

He knows little about what, exactly, to do, but he has overhead enough gossip to have an idea. Pushing aside her pantalettes, he carefully slides a finger inside her, then another. She arches her back and sighs his name as he finds her little pearl with his thumb.

Despite his inexperience, he is not gentle nor hesitant. He presses down roughly; she doesn’t wriggle away but spreads her legs wider, allowing his fingers deeper access to her. He draws her soft whimpers into him as he kisses her harshly, possessively, greedily. He will lay claim to her, conquer her as no one else ever had.

As no one else ever would.

Under his fingers, she becomes a writhing mess. Still, he is relentless in his ministrations, even as overstimulation seizes her.

“Please,” she begs in a frenzied whisper. “G’raha, _please._ ”

He was a fool to ever think he could deny her.

His robes are frustratingly troublesome, and his trembling fingers are absolutely no help. In the end, he all but tears them off. He will not mourn the ruined material; it is a worthy casualty.

Her kiss is as joyful as it is hungry when he slides into her; a relieved laugh bubbles up and out of her. He grins in return, the sheer thrill of this act that is theirs alone. His heart is slamming in its cage as though bursting to join hers.

She is velvet, impossibly warm, the heat of her searing through him. She closes her eyes, briefly flinching at the foreign sensation; he wills himself to be still, summoning his well-practiced patience as she adjusts to him. 

Letting out a sigh, she begins to move against him, running her hands through his hair as she pulls her small body against his feverishly.

Her kiss is ravenous, insatiable; he groans low in his throat as he begins to slowly move within her.

“I am your one and only,” he growls, pulling himself partly out of her.

She nods, her cheeks flush with color and emotion, anxious for him as she presses her hips against him, willing him back.

“Yes,” she moans breathlessly.

“You are mine.” His voice is severe, domineering.

“Always,” she tells him, sealing her words with a possessive kiss of her own.

He sets a punishing pace; she cries out before burying her face in his neck, leaving a bite that is sure to leave a mark. She is hot and slick as he drives himself in and out.

He can feel his end building; he slips his hand between them to the little bud that drives her to call out his name.

“Tell me you love me.” His voice is hoarse and tremulous even as his hands remain firm on her.

She does, and he comes undone at the sound of those achingly perfect words, her name spilling forth from his lips as he shudders to completion, his face in her hair.

They take several moments to revel in the easiness of merely being, still joined as one. Finally, G’raha withdraws from her and promptly mourns the loss. He gathers the remnants of his robes before helping her to her feet, threading his fingers through hers as he leads her to his rooms. He tosses his robe onto a chair before tugging her own over her head. She smiles contentedly at him as they lay down on his bed together. She has her head on his chest, her breathing slow and even, arms wound tightly around him, her own claim on him. He marvels at her, this precious young woman who had changed the course of his life forever. He had been hers, body and soul, from the moment they met, many long years ago.

And she was his, she had said.

 _His_.

She reaches up, her face tilting up to his, lightly caressing the curve of his cheek; he touches his nose to hers.

“Sleep now, my love,” she says quietly. “We have time yet, and I’ll not spend any of it without you. But first, rest.”

His kiss on her bruised lips is tender and sweet; the purity of his love felt to her very core.

She had given her heart to him from the very first, and she would spend the rest of her days proving it to him.

She would show him she was worthy of him.

**Author's Note:**

> Yes, I am a trash can now.


End file.
